


worst wishes, crowley

by firebirds



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, canon adjacent, listen i just needed 2 get this out of me after episode 3, more like soulmates with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebirds/pseuds/firebirds
Summary: “Actually, never mind," says Crowley. "I get it about the flood thing. Totally hot.”Adam and Eve discover anal. Crowley and Aziraphale think it looks rather fun.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 168





	worst wishes, crowley

**Author's Note:**

> all cards on the table i've only watched the show so my perspective is limited. i do plan on reading the book! but good omens really said fuck you to my writers block and before i realized what happened, i had myself a little fic. enjoy!

The Garden of Eden, 4004 BC

It isn’t so bad at first. 

Earth is new and exciting, and the honour Aziraphale feels at his new title of Angel of the Eastern Gate (and didn’t that just have the most wonderful ring to it!) eclipses any restlessness he might feel about the long, interminable hours spent mending gaps in the gate and listening to Adam and Eve copulate with unceasing frenzy. He even receives a flaming sword from the Almighty Herself, which turns out to be a massive inconvenience to haul around all the time, but he appreciates it all the same. 

A week into Creation, Hell sends up its own representative: a reptilian eyed, russet haired demon by the name of Crawly, who can shapeshift into a gargantuan snake at will. 

“Oh!” Exclaims Aziraphale, the first time Crawly demonstrates this talent. “Oh, how lovely!” 

Crawly returns to his human form and stares at Aziraphale like he’s sprouting an extra set of limbs. “Lovely,” he repeats.

“Indeed,” agrees Aziraphale. “I must confess, I envy you. Head office only issued me one body. However did you manage to convince them to give you a second?”

Crawly shrugs. “Told ‘em it would make me scarier.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Well, you rather missed the mark with me.”

Crawly shuffles his feet, shooting Aziraphale an uneasy glance. 

Aziraphale feels a sudden wellspring of sympathy in his heart– Crawly has just arrived here, after all, while Aziraphale has had the last week to acclimatize to this place. Crawly might be a demon specifically sent here to act as the bane of Aziraphale’s existence, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use a little encouragement.

He pats Crawly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear fellow. I’m sure your little getup will have the humans jumping out of their skin!” says Aziraphale. “So to speak,” he continues in the ensuing silence, awkwardly removing his hand from Crowley’s shoulder. “They can’t actually do that. That I’ve discovered.” 

Crawly’s gaze swivels downwards, taking in the paradise that is the Garden of Eden. Adam has just finished braiding Eve’s hair with daisies. “So what do they do?” He asks. 

“Oh, this and that. But mostly they just–”

A long, drawn-out moan drifts up from below, quickly followed by rhythmic grunting. 

“–do that,” finishes Aziraphale. 

Crawly raises his eyebrows, appraising. “He’s impaling her.”

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” 

“Why in Hell–”

“I’m given to understand that it feels quite good,” says Aziraphale.

“Huh,” says Crawly, “who’d’ve thought.” 

–––

Three months into Divine Creation and Aziraphale is starting to get a little bored. 

He’s perched on the edge of the wall overlooking Eden, legs dangling off the side, and half-listening to Crawly prattle on about some plant he’s taken an interest in. 

While he’s grateful for the company, Aziraphale can’t help but feel a little jealous that Crawly seems to have taken so easily to life on Earth. Privately, Aziraphale thinks he’s wasted here. He’s practically on glorified construction duty, and if he’s being honest, he’s more of an indoor sort. All this garden business is really quite a ghastly fit for him; maybe he should take it up with Gabriel.

Aziraphale’s ears twitch; from below comes the unmistakable sound of Adam and Eve, doing what they do best. Aziraphale grimaces as the noises become increasingly vigorous, and attempts to refocus his attention on Crawly. 

“... found this Devilish little number I’ve decided to call the Venus flytrap, you won’t believe–” Crawly freezes, words cutting off abruptly. A quizzical furrow hangs itself on his brow. 

“What? What is it?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crawly ignores him. “Oh,” he says in mild surprise, his gaze fixed on something down below. He cocks his head. “ _Oh_ ,” he says again as if he’s just had a grand discovery.

Aziraphale frowns at him and cranes his neck, but all he sees is Adam’s hips stuttering back and forth, and Eve loudly proclaiming her enthusiasm beneath him. Lord, don’t humans do anything else? He’ll talk to Gabriel about a department change by week’s end, Aziraphale decides. 

“It seems,” says Crawley, still staring intently at the couple, “that they’ve found a new way to do it.” 

“A new way to–” Aziraphale looks closer. “ _Oh._ ”

Silence (but for Adam and Eve’s enthusiastic moaning– but that was really white noise at this point) descends between them as they both lean down to get a better view. 

“Quite ingenious of them, really,” comments Aziraphale, offhand, “it would never have occurred to me to put _that_ in _there._ ”

Crawly nods. “Especially knowing what comes out of _there_ ,” he adds, and grins at Aziraphale’s affronted expression. 

They ponder the scene below them for several more minutes, then try to speak at the same time.

“I wouldn’t mind if we–” begins Aziraphale.

“Did you want to–” starts Crawly. 

They stare at each other. 

“I mean, there’s so very little here to do,” says Aziraphale, his hands clasped primly in his lap, the picture of celestial innocence.

“Dreadfully dull,” agrees Crawly, and leans closer.

“Nobody would blame us,” Aziraphale tries to convince himself.

“Not a soul,” says Crawly, and his gaze meanders downwards to– yes, he’s definitely staring at Aziraphale’s lips. Good Lord. 

Aziraphale takes all of three seconds to weigh his options. _This is a terrible idea,_ almostevery fibre within him screams. But apparently, he isn’t as adept at controlling the whims of his human body as he thought, because one particular fibre is screaming _this is a wonderful idea_ , and that’s the one he listens to. 

He crushes his lips against Crawly’s.

And, because they’re both a rather quick study, it doesn’t take long until the kissing devolves into something else entirely. 

–––

The next morning, Aziraphale wakes to find that, while he had been sleeping off Crawly’s ministrations, the demon in question had orchestrated the Original Sin. 

Feeling a bit guilty, he pops down to bestow Adam his flaming sword and congratulate him on the upcoming baby. If he’s a bit relieved that he doesn’t have to lug around that Godawful sword anymore, well, hardly anyone could blame him. 

Later, Crawly joins Aziraphale on the wall, and they have a tangled conversation about rights and wrongs and Great Plans that makes Aziraphale fidget nervously with his robes, feeling unsteady as a heavy gust of wind blows in from the east, and the rain starts. 

For some inexplicable reason, Aziraphale’s wing moves to shade Crawly from the downpour, and they remain side by side, observing the world in silence. 

***

Mesopotamia, 3004 BC – Golgotha, 33 AD

Aziraphale has been forced to work weekends ever since the Original Sin (thanks, Crawly), and often spends his rare moments of free time thinking despondently of Eden, where all his responsibilities could be counted on one hand. But he’s an Angel, and he’s been put here for a purpose, so he throws himself into his work with as much eagerness as he can muster. If it’s a little lonely at times, well. He wasn’t put on Earth to make friends. 

He’s embarrassingly excited whenever he runs into Crowley (née Crawly), even if all the demon seems to do is say awful, thought-provoking things about morality that make Aziraphale’s throat feel like it’s swelling up. 

It’s not for him to question the Almighty’s intentions, but it seems that wherever Crowley goes, the seeds of irreverence are planted. And really, Aziraphale reasons, if God didn’t want him to talk to Crowley, she should have sent more than one Angel to Earth, because life was rather unbearable without anyone to talk to, and he certainly couldn’t confide in any humans, short-lived as they were. Crowley was all he had. 

He thinks Crowley probably feels the same way about him. 

***

Rome, 41 AD

Neither of them mentions what happened between them until Rome. 

For his part, Aziraphale has tried to put it behind him. It had been a momentary (and admittedly enjoyable) lapse of judgement that he would not, under any circumstances, allow to happen again. 

Plus, Crowley hadn’t seemed at all interested in another go in Mesopotamia or Golgotha, no matter how long Aziraphale’s gaze had lingered, or how guilelessly he’d bit his lip at him. 

In the end, it takes Aziraphale a dozen oysters and a full bottle of Petronius’ signature sweet white wine to gather the courage to bring it up. 

“RememberthattimeyoumademecumsohardIforgotmyname?” 

Crowley chokes on the oyster he’s eating. “What?” He asks, between coughing fits.

“It looks like this bottle’s done,” says Aziraphale brightly, “isn’t that a shame?”

Crowley signals for another bottle to be brought over, along with several slices of honeyed bread to share, and Aziraphale pretends not to notice that Crowley is uncharacteristically quiet during the rest of their meal. 

Aziraphale distracts himself by complaining about work (he’s been sent to influence the boy Nero, who, it turns out, is quite the spoiled brat). 

“And how about you?” Aziraphale asks when they’ve wrapped up their meal and Crowley is walking Aziraphale back to his estate. “How goes your temptation?” 

Crowley is silent, lost in thought.

“Crowley?” Prompts Aziraphale.

“I remember,” says Crowley.

Dread, cold and abundant, settles itself in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. He forces out a laugh. “Remember what, my dear fellow?” He gives Crowley a stilted pat on the back. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Perhaps you over-indulged in Petronius’ wine. Not that I blame you,” he says, “it truly is the best in–”

“I thought you were pretending it never happened,” interrupts Crowley. 

Aziraphale swallows, scrambling to avoid what is surely impending doom. He really ought to have sobered himself up after lunch, he’s no use in this state. 

“I mean, you could’ve said something earlier, you can’t just expect _me_ to make the first move all the time-"

"Now hang on just a minute-"

"Especially since I did all the work the first time around-"

"I beg your pardon!"

"And I'm always the one seeking you out! If I hadn't found you in Mesopotamia or Golgotha, who knows how long we would've gone without seeing each other-"

Aziraphale, rather fed up at this point, grabs Crowley by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. “You had to have noticed I was making eyes at you the whole time!” He exclaims, then flushes all over. He lets go of Crowley and steps back, scratching the back of his neck. 

Crowley gapes at him, jaw working like he's trying to pluck a reply out of thin air. 

Aziraphale is about to tell him to forget it and beat a hasty retreat when Crowley finds his voice.

“Well, excuse me," Crowley says in a tone that demands the opposite, "but a devastating flood and a crucifixion do not lust inspire!” Crowley declares. Then he frowns, holding up a finger as if to tell Aziraphale, _shut up I’m thinking._

“Actually, never mind," says Crowley finally. "I get it about the flood thing. Totally hot.” 

Aziraphale's throat goes dry, and the lie slips out of him before he even knows what he’s going to say. “I heard that God might be planning another great flood.”

“Is that so?” Asks Crowley, eyes twinkling as they peer at him over the top of his sunglasses.

“Mmhm,” hums Aziraphale, suddenly rather nervous. “She, um. She wants everything gone. Hundreds of thousands dead. You know how it goes.” 

Crowley steps into Aziraphale’s space. “Loathsome business,” he says, his voice low and soft.

“Just terrible,” Aziraphale agrees, struggling to follow the thread of the conversation as Crowley pushes him back against a marble column. 

"I'm practically beside myself with grief," murmurs Crowley, then kisses him. 

“What do you say,” Crowley says when he pulls back, voice hoarse, “we make like the animals on Noah’s Ark and–”

“Do be quiet,” says Aziraphale, and miracles them to his chambers (where they do, in fact, make like the animals on Noah’s Ark).

–––

They spend the next several days together.

Aziraphale learns that Crowley is really quite a generous lover (and he gets charmingly sulky when you mention it to him) and besides that, a rather solid fellow once you got past the constant blaspheming. 

Of course, Crowley is still a demon and Aziraphale is still an angel, and if Aziraphale thinks too hard about what they’re doing, he gets that odd feeling in his stomach like he’s drunk too much alcohol, and perspires unattractively. 

As such, it’s almost a relief when Aziraphale is called away on business; it would be a relief if it wasn’t such a crushing disappointment.

“You could always put it off a couple of days,” Crowley suggests.

They’re lying in bed. Crowley is idly running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and Aziraphale is doing his best approximation of a satisfied housecat, sighing in content, senses half blurred by sleep. 

“Don’t tempt me,” Aziraphale mumbles without thinking, and Crowley’s mouth twitches. 

“But that’s my job, Angel,” Crowley teases.

Aziraphale makes a grumbling noise and burrows his head deeper into the crook of Crowley’s neck. 

Aziraphale is painfully aware of how domestic the whole scene is, but it’s hard to care in the afterglow. Even Crowley is all soft at the edges; gentle where he should be biting, considerate where he should be wicked. Not that Crowley has ever truly seemed wicked, Aziraphale thinks to himself. 

It’s all very confusing, and head office would have a field day if they found out. Really, it’s for the best that Aziraphale has to leave. 

–––

The next morning, Aziraphale wakes to an empty bed and a note on his bedside table.

_Didn’t want to tempt you (haha) to stay longer._

_~~All the best~~ Wait, that’s not very demonic of me. _

_Worst wishes,_

_Crowley._

Aziraphale spends an inordinately long time grinning down at the paper like an idiot before folding it and carefully tucking it away between the pages of his first edition _Meditations_ (Marcus had given it to him as a thank you for proofreading). Then he sighs, shakes his head free of thoughts of Crowley, and miracles himself far, far away. 

***

The Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD

He doesn’t see Crowley for the next several centuries.

“Crawly, is that you under there?” Aziraphale asks, pretending to forget Crowley’s new name. Just because he’s an Angel doesn’t mean he’s above a spot of mischief.

“ _Crowley,_ ” Crowley hisses, and Aziraphale stifles a grin. 

Crowley’s gleaming yellow eyes are unmistakable as he lifts his visor. Aziraphale is overcome with the sudden urge to rush over to him and give him a great big hug. The thought freezes his feet in place. 

They get to talking.

“So we’re both working very hard in damp places and just cancelling each other out?” Says Crowley, who has always had a penchant for cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Be easier if we both stayed home.” 

The suggestion hangs ripe between them. Aziraphale thinks of Crowley’s mouth on his, Crowley’s slick fingers working him open, the sound Crowley makes when he’s just on the edge–

Aziraphale yanks the proverbial reigns on his thoughts. He’d had centuries to put these thoughts behind him, where they belonged. He couldn’t go losing sight of his Divine Purpose now, and especially not for the sake of some demon. Even if that demon knew how to do wickedly divine things with that mouth of his.

“But that would be _lying_ ,” he protests, wondering if Crowley can see right through him. Another thought occurs to him: perhaps he’s gotten it all wrong– perhaps Crowley wasn’t implying anything at all. Perhaps all Crowley wants is a day off, alone. It’s been centuries since they’ve seen each other, after all. Maybe Crowley has found someone– someone to–

“Not another word!” Aziraphale blurts. He thinks they’ve been talking for a while now, but Aziraphale’s attention has been… divided, to say the least. 

“...Right,” says Crowley. He seems to be waiting for Aziraphale to do something. So Aziraphale summons up all the angelic self-righteousness he possesses, and storms away, resolving to put an end to this _fraternizing_ once and for all. 

–––

His resolve crumbles in a week.

It’s just– it gets rather monotonous after a while, performing the same old miracles, day after day. And if there’s one thing Aziraphale has learned in his time here, humans have the inconvenient tendency of mucking everything up, no matter how much undue angelic influence Aziraphale has over them. Suffice to say, he’s feeling thoroughly burnt out. 

So he rides back to the clearing where he’d run into Crowley, ready to take him up on his offer, only to find a hapless group of mercenaries sitting around an unsuccessful campfire (God, this place was damp) looking disoriented and lost. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale greets them with a smile. “I’m here to see the Black Knight?”

“‘E’s gone,” says one of the mercenaries. He’s two heads taller than Aziraphale and his beard is the size and texture of a middling shrub. “Said ‘e wanted to broaden his ‘orizons. Expand ‘is business an’ all that.” 

“His business?” Repeats Aziraphale.

“Terrorism,” one of the other mercenaries pipes in helpfully. He has a vicious looking crossbow slung over his back. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, heart sinking. Did Crowley think so little of him now that he didn’t deign to say goodbye? “Alright then. Thank you for your time.” 

He starts to head off when a thought strikes him. “Actually,” he says, turning to face the ragtag group, “now that your leader is gone… maybe you ought to start thinking about turning your lives around. You know, for the better?” 

The mercenaries all stare up at him with the dazed, dreamy expression of humans who have just been miracle’d. The archer, his quiver on his lap, starts to methodically snap each of his arrows in two.

Aziraphale nods, satisfied at a job well done, and mounts his horse. 

“‘ope you find ‘im,” the bearded mercenary says. “‘e seemed real broken up about you telling ‘im off like that.” 

Aziraphale blinks. “Did he?” 

The mercenaries nod. 

“Said ‘e didn’t even feel like being evil that day. ‘E gave us all the day off. Came as a big shock, that did.” 

Aziraphale tries (and fails) not to feel touched. Crowley, the big, bad demon, feeling out of sorts after their little tiff? Aziraphale’s heart was practically bursting. 

He bids farewell to the mercenaries and rides hard back to King Arthur’s castle. 

***

Ethiopia, a few days later

Aziraphale tracks Crowley down to a library south of Egypt in the space of three days. 

It’s sandy and blisteringly hot, and by the time he finds the library, his body has produced enough sweat to soak through his clothing twice over. 

Crowley is easy enough to spot: lounging on a cushion in crisp black robes, occasionally shouting out suggestions in a foreign language to a group of scholars huddled around a table. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries, too glad to pretend to be otherwise. 

At his voice, the scholars look up from the table. For a moment, all is silent. Then they all begin speaking at once, discussion crescendoing to disagreement and full-blown argument. They seem to be deciding what to do with this unexpected newcomer. 

One of the scholars, a pudgy, dark-skinned man dressed in rich green hues, yells something rather angry sounding and points a thick finger directly at Aziraphale. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, “ _do_ something!” 

Crowley heaves a sigh and pulls himself to his feet with the grudging resignation of a child yelled at by his mother. He puts an arm around the pudgy man’s shoulders and whispers something in his ear. The man glances between them, curious, but seems to be placated. He says something to the other scholars, and they resume their studies.

Crowley saunters up to him.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale demands before Crowley can open his mouth.

“Desecrating the bible,” Crowley answers. He jerks his head at the scholars. “They’re translating it into Ge’ez. Thought I’d try to work a couple of sins into scripture.” Crowley narrows his eyes. “What are _you_ doing here? I didn’t think I’d be seeing you for another couple centuries,” he shrugs, “give or take.” 

Aziraphale suddenly feels very ridiculous. Had he really just chased Crowley across the globe like a lovesick puppy? How is Aziraphale supposed to explain his presence? He certainly can’t tell him the truth. _And what truth is that?_ Aziraphale thinks. _That you missed him? He’ll laugh in your face._

“...Angel?” Crowley prompts. His arms are crossed over his chest, an eyebrow quirked, but Aziraphale thinks he can detect a sliver of worry in Crowley’s tone. 

The words rush out of him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

Crowley gazes at him, silent.

Aziraphale grasps for something to say. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a vacation. Or two,” he adds with a stiff chuckle. “And I think you’re right about head office. They hardly check up on me anymore. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been left to the proverbial wolves.” Aziraphale forces out another laugh and looks anywhere but at Crowley.

“What are you saying, Az?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale huffs, frustrated. “Are you really going to make me say it? Fine. The arrangement you suggested, well. It might not be the worst idea in the world.” 

When Aziraphale finally braves a glance in Crowley’s direction, his heart stutters. Crowley looks as cool as ever, but the corner of his mouth is quirking upwards, and he looks _pleased,_ like Aziraphale has done something unexpected and rather impressive. 

“You hungry?” Asks Crowley.

“I could eat,” says Aziraphale. 

***

After Ethiopia, things are simple. Or as simple as they’ll ever be. 

They spend most of their time orbiting one another, watching history unfold and the world blossom into something no one– save the Almighty– could have predicted. Sometimes one or both of them is called off on assignment elsewhere, but as the centuries go by, head office becomes less and less concerned with the minutiae of the human world. 

Aziraphale drags Crowley to the theatre, and Crowley rescues Aziraphale from the guillotine, and it’s all quite grand, if Aziraphale says so himself. 

They dine together and drink together, and in between, Crowley keeps Aziraphale updated on all the new ways humans have learned to sin with one another. 

Often, they go months, years, even decades without seeing each other. Aziraphale never strays, never wants to, but God only knows what Crowley gets up to. Aziraphale never asks, the question always dies in his throat before he can get the first word out. 

Crowley is Crowley, scheming and razor-sharp and quick to anger. They quarrel constantly and share equal amounts of blame, but most of the time it’s Crowley who comes slinking back first, eyes trained studiously on his (always stylish) shoes as he presents Aziraphale with a rare first edition, or an extravagant Chardonnay, or sometimes even a carefully arranged bouquet of flowers. 

They have a row over holy water in St James’s Park, and Crowley tells Aziraphale, “I don’t need you,” while Aziraphale stalks off, and it puts Aziraphale off his game for nearly a century until Crowley almost burns the soles clean off his feet to rescue Aziraphale in a church. And then Aziraphale is fretting over his lost books, and Crowley hands them to him, unburnt and safe, and says, “little demonic miracle of my own,” and Aziraphale realizes he might be in a little over his head. 

Aziraphale has read too much poetry not to know what love is, but he knows this– whatever this is– can’t be it. But every so often, it comes dangerously close.

***

Present Day

The world almost ends. Almost. 

On the very last day of the rest of their lives, they dine at the Ritz, because Aziraphale is a creature of habit, and Crowley seems happy enough to oblige. 

Happy. Aziraphale supposes he’s happy. He’s happy that he gets to enjoy humanity a little longer, and that his bookshop didn’t burn down, and that Crowley is safe. But he can’t seem to shake the feeling that this whole world-saving business happened too quickly. That, perhaps, they’d missed something vital, and that despite it all, the world would be ending anytime now. 

For a long time, life had felt rather like an endless roller coaster, replete with free falls and loop-de-loops that left Aziraphale winded, dizzy, and terrified. But Armageddon had come and gone, and Aziraphale had finally been allowed off the roller coaster and onto steady ground, only to find that he’s forgotten how to walk.

“Crowley,” he says, once they’ve left the Ritz and Crowley is pulling up to Aziraphale’s bookshop. He’s not sure what he’s going to say: something nonsensical about roller coasters, probably, but when Crowley meets his gaze, expression open and attentive and gentle, all of Aziraphale’s tangled thoughts fall to the wayside. 

“You must come in. I have a whole _shelf_ of first editions to show you, all in pristine condition. Practically like new!” 

“Sounds terribly boring,” replies Crowley, and follows him inside. 

***

That Night

“ _OhmyGod,_ ” breathes Crowley, without a trace of irony. “Where did you learn _that_?” 

Crowley is lying down on Aziraphale’s bed, stark naked and boneless, staring up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the universe. 

Aziraphale wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries not to look too pleased. He reaches out, tentative, to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It’s as shiny and bouncy as ever, and always seems to rearrange itself perfectly, no matter how much Aziraphale tugs at it. 

Crowley watches him in the dim light, eyes heavy-lidded but alert. “Answer the question,” Crowley says, voice like velvet. 

“What?” Aziraphale says, because he can’t help but lose his head when Crowley looks at him like that. 

Crowley narrows his eyes and pushes himself up on his elbows. “I asked you where you learned to do that.” 

“To do what?” He asks, bewildered, before he realizes what Crowley is talking about. “You can’t mean–”

“Stop avoiding the question,” Crowley growls.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, fighting down a smile, “oh, Crowley.” 

“Don’t take that tone with me!” Crowley replies, affronted. “Say something!”

But all Aziraphale can do is smile, helpless. 

Crowley leaps to his feet and starts rooting around for his clothes. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Darling,” he says, as Crowley struggles with the button on his trousers. 

Crowley whirled on him. “You’re infuriating!”

“And you’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale replies, tugging Crowley’s hands away from his trousers and interlacing their fingers. “I thought it went without saying that everything I know about these matters, I learned from you.” 

Crowley pauses, gaze darting from Aziraphale to their joined hands. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Aziraphale repeats.

Crowley sinks down next to him on the edge of the bed, looking sheepish. 

Aziraphale thinks about asking him. _And you? Where did you learn all this?_ But, as ever, he can’t get the words out. Crowley squeezes his hand, and Aziraphale thinks that it doesn’t really matter, as long as he still has this. 

“I was just making it all up as I went along,” Crowley mutters under his breath, and frowns as if the confession had been drawn out of him at gunpoint. 

Aziraphale’s chest floods with equal parts warmth, gratitude, and relief, and it’s all he can do to squeeze Crowley’s hand in return. He thinks they’re both a little too caught up in the moment to do anything else. 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, when his voice works again. 

“Yes, Angel?” 

Aziraphale swallows. He wants to ask, _am I still an angel? Are you still a demon? Do we still have jobs? Why do I feel like the word still might end tomorrow?_

Instead, he asks, “would you like to stay?” 

And Crowley smiles, all teeth, and says, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

**Author's Note:**

> not beta read so if you catch any mistakes / typos / what have you, just let me know in the comments and i'll fix them. tbh i didn't even read this over before posting and i'm kinda scared to now, so. 
> 
> i'd love to hear what you think! concrit is always appreciated (:
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://james-mcavoys.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] worst wishes, crowley](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249611) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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